


Past Time

by Amemait



Category: Passchendaele - Fandom
Genre: GFY, Gen, Trigger warnings: Mental health issue (PTSD) being ignored/ridiculed/etc (era appropriate), Trigger warnings: Mention of Suicide (under euphamism), Trigger warnings: War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemait/pseuds/Amemait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clocks measure time in increments; the human mind measures time in moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the movie Passchendaele; it belongs to Paul Gross, and to all those who fought and lost anything in any battle, on either side – lives, limbs, or a part of their souls. Lest We Forget.
> 
> Warnings/Spoilers: I spell like a Kiwi, I write like an idiot, and this thing’s just one giant spoiler for the whole damn film.  
> Thanks to: nos4a2no9, for telling me to finish it, and to disturbed muffin, who rolled her eyes and corrected my spelling at the last minute, despite being an assignment zombie.
> 
> Other: Those looking for a DVD-commentary can click here: http://bakaknight.livejournal.com/96260.html  
> At the time of initial posting on my LJ, writing, this movie was due to officially open the next day. This fic qualified for the First In Fandom badge, being the single first fic based on this movie.  
> How did I see it? I happened to be in Canada at the time on a diplomatic visa, and was invited to the Museum de Civilisation for a military prescreening on the IMAX screen there. I'm not actually kidding. http://bakaknight.livejournal.com/86162.html for the pictures, because it's full of pictures of Paul.
> 
> Reference books used during the construction of this fic, because this is not a case of did-not-do-the-research, although the detail which was going to be in here was thrown out before posting:  
> In the Fact of the Enemy: The complete history of the Victoria Cross and New Zealand (yes, I know it's not Canadian. It does, however, have a bit on South Africa in it, which is handy.) - Glyn Harper and Colin Richardson  
> Two slightly-restricted booklets on the Canadian military (one on Canadian medals, and one on battlespace)  
> Dark Journey (a bit of an expansion on the next book in the list) - Glyn Harper  
> Massacre at Passchendaele - Glyn Harper
> 
> Other references used:  
> Paul Gross talking meta about the movie and deleted/unfilmed scenes for it (in person, sadly, not as part of a DVD extra).  
> My father, who includes in his hobbies the 'what kind of tank/aeroplane/medal is that' game, and who therefore was able to provide me with the details for Randolph's medals, and the specific campaigns and timeframes they belonged to.

There were whispers that he should have gotten the VC.  
  
The man before him was nothing more than a deserter to his eyes; the man who wore the DCM as though it were something to be ashamed of - ashamed of! - had been considered for the highest Gallantry Award.  
  
Frankly, it made Major Randolph Dobson-Hughes sick.  
  
It was outrageous that he should have to work with the man. He was rude and impertinent. He was a Sergeant. He was not 'our sort of people', as Randolph's mother had once admonished him, after his nanny had informed her that he'd been playing hoops with the gardener's son.  
  
And yet, he wore the DCM, even as he carried a piece of paper in his pocket. Always carried that piece of paper, damn him, like it was a lifeline and he was on a sinking ship, and confound it all if the man didn't sometimes seem more proud of the paper that declared him mentally (deserter) incompetent (deserter!) than he was of the award.  
  
Distinguished Conduct Medal. Second only to the Victoria Cross. Dark blue on crimson, and the man did not deserve to wear it.  
  
He should not be in Canada. He should be serving at the front!  
  
'We use gas, sir' indeed! It was not honourable that Britain and her allies had stooped so low as the German scum, but for the coward to make such an observation-  
  
That was beyond tolerance.  
  
He had tapped his nose, in an almost conspiratorial manner.  
  
"Right you are, sergeant."  
  
 _I know what you are, coward_.  
  
\--  
  
Randolph's rifle shook in his hands. He'd been there all of three months, and already it hurt to breathe. It hurt to think about his friends, it hurt to think about home, and it hurt to-  
  
"Captain Dobson-Hughes?"  
  
The Corporal sounded nervous, and Randolph replaced his rifle on the table before him. It did not do for the lower ranks to observe their betters allowing one's nerves to get the better of oneself.  
  
"Enter!"  
  
"Sir, we have a bearing, and are ready to move at your command."  
  
Randolph nodded.  
  
He had fifty-eight men (one dead from a gun-cleaning accident), fifty-eight that he knew by name, that he trusted, fifty-eight good, strong, fighting men.  
  
The Boer wouldn't know what hit them.  
  
\--  
  
Randolph woke up, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness of the room - the pub across the road was still open, and the light from the open doors filtered through his curtains. He swung his legs out of bed, wincing when the old spear wound in his left thigh twinged, just as it did every time he did that manoeuvre.  
  
That never stopped him. It merely meant that he would continue to repeat the actions that made it hurt. He always hoped that one day, it would no longer hurt.  
  
Sometimes, in the moments where his nerves seemed about to get the better of him, he suspected this would only happen when he was dead.  
  
He refused to let them get the better of him. The Sergeant's arrival had only served to reinforce his determination on the matter.  
  
The curtains pulled safely tight against further light, he walked calmly back to his bed.  
  
The ticks and tocks of his various clocks lulled him back to sleep.  
  
\--  
  
The coward was in love.  
  
The coward was in love with a nurse.  
  
The nurse was a daughter of a traitor.  
  
And he was refusing to recruit the traitor’s son, the nurse’s brother.  
  
She would have coached him to falsify this asthma, because she was just as traitor.  
  
He’d heard the rumours.  
  
This sergeant ( _coward, deserter, would he be traitor too?_ ) would regret his folly.  
  
\--  
  
He brushed his hands wistfully over his dress uniform, almost regretting not being able to take it with him through to Ypres. It simply would not do for a recruiting officer to wear the thing; he needed to show the simplicity of war, not the beauty of the uniforms. He hadn’t worn it in so very long. But he still kept the ribbons clean, the medals shining silver-bright.  
  
Queen's South Africa Medal. Awarded to all who served in South Africa. A Campaign Medal, a symbol of battles past, battles fought and overcome.  
  
King's South Africa Medal. Awarded only to those who had served at the right times, for the right length of time. Sometimes, this medal horrified him. Also a Campaign Medal, the same campaign, but a different monarch. He recalled how he had wept when the news of Her Majesty's untimely death had reached the camp, how he had immediately ordered all flags at half-mast. How the chaplain had led a special service that evening.  
  
Britannia held her flag and her wreath, and her image was treated with just as much care as was the monarch's. God Rest the Queen, God Save the King.  
  
Once, still a young and impetuous Captain (ten years ago, too long ago, too recent yet) he’d never worn the medals. He didn’t deserve them, they were worthless in his eyes. His General had eventually noticed that his aide de camp was missing two vital pieces of his uniform, and had spoken with him about this quietly.  
  
Shouting would have almost been easier. Those quiet words, however…  
  
 _You are disrespecting their memory, Captain_.  
  
'South Africa' gleamed the words, and he tried not to shudder.  
  
The Dark Continent was best left alone.  
  
\--  
  
Belgium had been beautiful once, he knew.  
  
When he was ten, his mother had taken him on a tour of Europe, before she became a shut-in, before she lost her mind to grief. Belgium had been… astounding. So bright and full of colour.  
  
It was hard to think that this was close to that wonderful child’s playground.  
  
He’d met a boy about his age there, Pierre.  
  
Somehow, he rather felt his boyhood friend wasn’t alive.  
  
He’d chased that coward back here, and it was… He’d almost gained a sense of respect for the man. To come back   
something like this…  
  
Trench warfare was one thing. He’d heard that the most dangerous thing about such warfare was the waiting (one letter from an old comrade-in-arms had mentioned madness amongst his troops – ‘akin to cabin fever, but beneath the solid ground’) There were no trenches here.  
  
There was just unending mud and darkness and rain. The heavens poured out upon the killing grounds, as though God were shedding tears upon the insanity of it all.  
  
Sixty men? Even against the Hun scum, they would be slaughtered here.  
  
This was the true madne-  
\--  
Fin.


End file.
